


Stand on my own two feet

by orphan_account



Series: Strive To Be Alive [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bahorel is all the awesome, M/M, Multi, Terminal Illnesses, i did a thing, maybe slight piningjolras, this time Jehan is a sweetie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 15:03:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is barely living. What should it matter if he dies?</p><p>
  <em>My Fearless Leader looks ready to cut me another one, when my heart starts palpitating wildly. It's been doing this a lot for the past three months, and now it's reminded me of my appointment at four this afternoon, and I would be nervous, but my chest hurts to much right now.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stand on my own two feet

**Author's Note:**

> you should probs read the first part, 'cause otherwise it won't make much sense.

_Three months later_

 

I wrap my hands around the cold neck of a bottle of beer, watching the meeting with half- closed eyes. Enjolras is stunning, as usual, everybody stops to listen. Even the people outside come in from the driving rain to listen to him shouting about how the government is screwing everybody over. All the Les Amis are staring at him like he's some sort of superhuman, but to me he is more like a god instead, and I don't stare, I fear that I gaze with some sort of adoration behind the glass of the bottle. I'm at the very back, hidden away in a booth, my feet in my ratty converse which are resting on the table. The dyed blonde behind the counter glares daggers at me. I look over at her insolently, and stretch my feet further up the table. She huffs and ducks into the kitchen. I tune in to what our Fearless Leader is saying, he seems to have stirred the rest of them into almost shouting at the unfairness of it all, their eyes blazing and hands curled into fists. Bahorel especially seems on the verge of punching one of the ordinary patrons.

 

"...No! We shall not let the government do this! We shall rise and strike down the swells who believe they rule over us absolutely, and set things to right! So, let's take an account of our numbers. We are many and they are few, we can rise..." He's shouting and gesticulating, his cheeks flushed with the righteous anger that pervaded over me all those months ago. It almost pains me to interrupt him, but I have to set Apollo straight.

 

I cough loudly and clear my throat even more so. Everybody turns and looks at me, the rest of the Les Amis with indulgence, Enjolras with exasperation and something else that I dare not name, the other patrons look at me suspiciously. "Sorry O Fearless leader, but your point is soft. Why exactly will the people rise?" Enjolras becomes redder and redder, the rest of the Amis look on worriedly, and the other patron's gazes flicker between the two of us, sizing us up. I carry on swiftly, ignoring the fact that Enjolras had opened his mouth to say something. "You seem to think that you can just snap your fingers and people will come to your beck and call."

 

"No! That's not what I think at all! I believe that they'll see what's wrong, and help put it to right!" He bursts out, and yet again I prepare to poke holes in his argument. He's fun to rile up. Not to mention beautiful when he's angry.

 

"Maybe some people will," I admit, and Enjolras looks slightly victorious. "But the majority won't; they'll stay sleeping in their beds. They are apathetic." My point made, I sip from the beer in my hands.

 

"Don't judge everyone by your standards, Grantaire." Enjolras sneers, and ouch, that actually hurts. Did I mention he's beautiful when he's angry? He looks like an avenging angel, one that my hands itch to draw. I put on a mocking smirk to cover up the hurt. Jehan glares up at Apollo, and Eponine looks ready to fight for my honor, Barhorel is cracking his knuckles and looking menacing. "I believe that people have good in them, and they will fight for a righteous cause." Poor, naive, amazing Enjolras. 

 

"Not all people are good; only a few are bright spots," _like you, Enjolras._ I leave the words unsaid, but Jehan glances at me knowingly from under Courf's arm. I take another sip of my drink, then continue. "Many, many more, will prefer to stay at home, and _will_ stay there, waiting for something to drag them into the future, flapping and flaming. And, if I'm not mistaken, you need people for a revolution, Apollo." 

 

Enjolras swells in anger, and looks ready to tear me a new one, when Combeferre interrupts and places a hand on his arm and mutter quietly, "Don't, Enjolras, you'll regret it; you always regret it." Hang on, Enjolras _regrets_ pounding my heart into a thousand tiny pieces again and again? I thought he liked doing it. Sometimes I wish I could stop loving him. 

 

Waving a hand casually towards Combeferre, I say genially, "Don't stop him if he's got something to say. Wouldn't want to deprive Apollo of his rights to free speech." The nickname always needles him, and I take a swig from the bottle, while staring straight at him, a hopefully challenging look in my eye. Combeferre shoots me a warning glance, and Ep is cutting a hand across her throat in a violent, _no!_ motion. Jehan and Courf turn to me and shake their heads in unison. They scare me a little sometimes when they do that. They remind my of the twins in _The Shining._

__

__My Fearless Leader looks ready to cut me another one, when my heart starts palpitating wildly. It's been doing this a lot for the past three months, and now it's reminded me of my appointment at four this afternoon, and I would be nervous, but my chest hurts to much right now. I bend over the table, my face caught in a grimace of pain, and my bottle rolls forgotten to the floor. My legs scrape the ground in spasms of agony, my hands clutching at the skin over my blocked artery. Jehan and Eponine are the first over, lifting me, lying me along the booth. I'm in almost too much pain to notice. They're asking me questions, _where does it hurt? What have you done?_ I physically can't open my mouth to answer them because I'm in so much pain. They're panicked, and Jehan, the gentle soul that he is, is almost close to tears, but Ep's made of stronger stuff, but I can still see she's fiercely worried. Enjolras and Joly make a quick third and fourth person over, Apollo hovering anxiously, Joly running his practiced hands over my body in search of the thing that's hurting me. The rest of the Les Amis follow close behind, Bahorel blocking the view of the other customers to me, cracking his knuckles once again, they'd been starting to peer over. Joly's hand pauses over my heart, through blurry eyes I can see him frown, and reach a hand up to check my pulse. _ _

__

No! They can't know! I scream in my mind, they'd be too busy worrying over me to help the revolution, and if there's anything I believe in, it's this. Anyway, I can stand on my own two feet. I force down the pain from my heart, and throw Joly's, Ep's, and someone else's miscellaneous hands off me, and swing myself up with, what I hope is, not too obvious, effort and smile wanly at them. The pains been getting worse, but I suppose that's from drinking heavily and smoking too much over the past three months, when those stupid pamphlets told me expressly not to. "I'm fine." I say. They all look extremely skeptical. "Seriously, I'm fine, guys!" I try to make my smile bigger, less fake, and it gets slightly twisted as a result. _Great job, as always, Grantaire._

__

__Barhorel snorts disbelievingly. "Yeah, like hell you're fine. Mind telling the class what that little fit was all about?"_ _

__

__"Tell us, R, we won't be mad." says Ep softly. No, you wouldn't. But I won't tell you._ _

__

__Jehan pokes my arm. "C'mon R." Enjolras nods importantly, looking lost, but determined to help, as always. The sight almost makes me laugh._ _

__

__"It's nothing!" My voice is too high, and Combeferre picks up on it, as always. I check the clock. Quarter past three. I need to leave soon._ _

__

__"Grantaire, you can tell us, we're your friends." Combeferre's voice is soft, gentle, and reminds me of the ocean. Enjolras is the crackling fire._ _

__

__I won't tell them. I just can't. I need to prove to myself, that I can do something, without leaning on my friends._ _

__

__Courf swings off Jehan's shoulders, and says in that joking way of his, "C'mon R, it's not going to kill you if you tell us."_ _

__

__These words make me tense, stiffen all over, I feel the urgent need to get out of there immediately. Right now. Enjolras, being the hawkeye that he is, catches the movement and frowns. "I- I need to go." I push past all my well- meaning friends, out into the pouring rain, running and running and running. I need to get away. At a piazza I stop, catch my breath, and regain my bearings. My physical energy is depleted, but my mind is humming with unease. _"it's not going to kill you if you tell us."_ the thing is, it just might. _ _

__

__I catch a bus to the hospital, and lean my head against the window, close my eyes. I try not to think, I can already feel myself becoming nervous, despite myself. I don't look out at the rainy Paris. It arrives, and I slouch off without thanking the bus driver. When he leaves, feel bad. The leaves on the trees outside the hospital drip down my neck. I left my scraggy coat at the Musain. I don't particularly care at this point, what can a cold do to make me worse?_ _

__

__I make my way to the heart surgery building, and as I enter, I catch a glimmer of blonde curls and a glimpse of red. I turn my head and pause. Nothing's there. Nothing bar the howling rain, and the bitter breeze. I shrug and walk into the building._ _

__

__The blonde curls and red flash on the edge of my vision again._ _

**Author's Note:**

> whoops i did a thing


End file.
